Murphy's Law
by PhantomMemories
Summary: DeAnon from Kink MeMe: America is attacked by an ordinary human: Cue England's call to heroism.
1. Chapter 1

2 am is not the ideal time to have your rental car break down.

A gang-infested district of L.A. Is not the best location for such a breakdown to occur. Especially when one is driving one of the most sought after models of the year.

America grumbled as he flipped his cell phone shut. Being late was going to get him yelled at again. England just might understand that the flight delay from the east coast, but not the car (A reliable model usually, however not tonight), the shortcut he'd taken to try and get to the hotel a little closer to on time,or the fact that Alfred hadn't called him to let him _know_ that things were following Mr. Murphy's law tonight.

The truth was, after the call to the rental company, his cell had snapped right into line with the laws that were in force. The battery died without a warning squawk.

At least the rental company knew where he was, and had promised to do something about this little problem.

Alfred stepped out of the car, intent on getting into his luggage, and the cell charger that he somehow remembered packing in his duffel bag. If the battery in the car wasn't dead, he'd at least be able to have a way to let Arthur know what was going on- and despite the reputation of this area of town, everything seemed quiet enough.

The trunk popped noiselessly, and Alfred bent to rummage through his bag, swearing as his phone slipped out of his hand, and clattered to the pavement.

That was why he missed the sound of footsteps on the broken pavement, until the gun was shoved into his ribs.

"Hand over your keys, prettyboy, and I'll let you walk out of this."

_Great._ "If you're looking to steal a ride, you might want to find one that works." Alfred could overpower the kid- no problem. The gun, however might be a problem. Well. He'd taken bullets before- but it hurt like crazy, and while it wouldn't kill him, he really didn't want deal with that. Not tonight.

"Fuck that. I should just cap your dumb ass right now. You think I'm stupid."

"Pretty much," Alfred said with a quick jab to where he now knew the thief's ribs were. If he were lucky, the kid would end up with a couple of broken ribs, and a lick of common sense.

"What the hell-" The gun went off, shattering a taillight.

The conversation went downhill from there, as the thief, not gaining any smarts from blow that had thrown his aim off pulled the trigger again, even as he was staggering backwards from said blow.

_Shit. _Alfred hadn't counted on that.

In the slow motion that this alley had become, America saw red splattering against his glasses before he felt the burning white hot pain in his throat.

_Arthur's going to be so pissed off._ The random thought hit him as darkness started creeping up on him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't- stand. Falling to his knees, to the pavement, as the ground turned blackish red in the halogen street lights.

The dead cellphone mocked him from a few inches away, while he fought for oxygen, to move, to see through blood-spattered and crooked glasses.

"I told you, fucker." The face of the teenager that had just shot him was hardened. Angry. Unbalanced. He was coming closer, menacing- but Alfred couldn't move.

And then more pain- something striking him. The man shouted something more, but in the eddies of the tides of unconsciousness, the words were lost.


	2. Chapter 2

_Blast that idiot and his habitual lateness. _ Arthur grumbled, awakened by the mobile on his nightstand. Two in the morning, local time, and Alfred should have been there before midnight. Did he think that England was going to wait up for him? Hardly. They could bloody well talk in the morning.

"Hello, this is the Airport Rental company," the far too chipper for the wee hours of the morning voice told him in a rush, "I'm calling for Mr. Jones. This is his alternate number-"

"He's not here." Alternate number? Hopefully this wasn't a trend. Arthur did NOT appreciate the interruption of his sleep to become a message service. "What do you want him for?"

"Oh." The voice had lost a bit of cheer. Which suited Arthur perfectly. "I found out that our towing service won't go into the Gray Valley area at this hour because of past gang-related hijackings- but he's not responding to his phone. I need to know if he wants me to try and get a cab for him."

"What the hell..." Arthur blinked as 'Gang Related Hijackings' registered, and woke him up completely. Alfred was a big boy though, and strong as a herd of oxen. "Where is he? I'll go pick him up."

"Sir, it's a dangerous area. I'm sure we can find someone—"

"Give me the damned address already." What was this fear creeping up his spine? He snagged his trousers, and pistol, snapping it into the holster. Strong, yes, but sometimes Alfred could be fucking dim.

Arthur was out the door and down the stairs before the clerk could finish telling him the intersection. In a cab before he could change his mind, and return to the hotel room to pace until Alfred showed up all apologetic and tired.

Because that was what was going to happen, right?

The boy was rubbing off on him, if he was thinking that way, Arthur realized, as he convinced the gentleman driving that, yes, he really did want to go to that address.

The red car was sitting where the friendly voice had told him it would be, and Arthur could see that the trunk was wide open.

_Shit._

There was a figure behind the car, moving back and forth. Arthur could hear yelling, but couldn't make out the words. That was not Alfred.

The cabdriver pulled to the curb, and refused to get any closer than a block. As soon as Arthur stepped out, the man laid rubber- which didn't even make the figure look up, so absorbed in his little dance. Step. Kick. Yell. Kick. Kick-

There was something- someone- on the ground behind the car. Arthur's heart dropped as he pulled his weapon. Alfred- it had to be. But why wasn't he fighting back? One single human shouldn't be able to-

A flash of light highlighted the gun in the stranger's hand as he brought it down to point at the heap behind the car.

"Don't move." Arthur used the other edge of the car as cover. "Drop your weapon."

"You want somma this too?" The weapon was kept pointed at the downed man- Arthur could see a flash of blond hair, ruffled by a slight breeze. He wasn't moving. "I'll get to you after I finish prettyboy here. Don't think he's so pretty now..."

The maniacal grin wasn't natural.

"Leave him alone." Arthur cocked the pistol, "Drop. Your. Weapon."

"Why? He's practically dead already. I'm just making sure-" Bloody hell. No.

It might not kill America, England reasoned, it would just cripple him severely for months- however, considering the political situation-

He took the shot.

The man staggered back from the force of impact, and _giggled_.

A crackhead. He was feeling no pain- however the gun was still in his hand, still pointed downwards at the vulnerable man.

Fuck.

Arthur aimed for the head this time, even as the man tossed another kick at the still figure. No fucking crackheaded punk was going to fucking try to kill America. _His Alfred._

The assailant dropped, and Arthur ran to Alfred.

_How bad... how bad- he has to be-_

Blood pooled around his head, coated his dress shirt, sluggishly bubbling from a gaping wound in his throat. Air wheezed softly from the hole.

_It's fucking bad._

His eyes were closed behind cracked glasses, cheeks scraped, and showing the beginnings of bruises. The jaw was in position that made it obvious that it was broken.

And these were just the visible injuries.

If he'd been human, he would most likely be dead right now.

One hand reached to lightly touch the battered face, and was rewarded with a flickering of eyelashes. The pure blue gaze was glazed with injury and something resembling fear that melted away as he leaned close enough for Alfred to see him.

"Shh. Don't move. It's over." Arthur told him softly. The barest hint of a smile crossed bleeding lips that moved in unvoiced words.

'Sorry for being late.'

The eyes fluttered closed again.

England swallowed the emotion that made him want to just rage at the one who had marred his boy. But that man had a bullet in his head, and this man needed the kind of help that one small nation couldn't give.

Arthur flipped out his mobile, and made the necessary calls, then sat next to Alfred. A gentle hand stroked the boy's forehead, while the other clutched the gun, aware of every sound in the vicinity. He had enough ammunition left- and this time he wouldn't hesitate.

God help anyone else who tried to mess with England tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

A big, strong, proud nation shouldn't look so... vulnerable, damnit.

Arthur couldn't help the twitching in his fingers when he thought about that night a week ago, while watching over the larger man in his unnatural slumber.

The ambulance had taken bloody forever to come- or at least it had felt that way- and the only thing he could do was watch over the fallen nation to make certain no one else harmed him. He'd had to wait in near silence, broken only by the wet sounds of Alfred's breathing, hoping- praying- that the bullheaded strength would carry the boy just a little longer. At least until a physician could stitch things back into their proper place, and allow his body to start healing on its own.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of blood, and professionally guarded panic, as the EMTs, unused to the strength and staying power of a nation whispered things like 'shouldn't even be alive- he can't last long' when they thought Arthur couldn't hear.

They hadn't given up, though. And neither could England.

The sounds of the heart monitor had remained fitful in the emergency room, while the doctors worked on removing the bits of shattered metal from the deeply unconscious boy.

It had, they told him, ripped through the vocal cords, and lodged next to Alfred's spinal cord, putting enough pressure on it to potentially damage the connection between brain and body.

Even without Arthur's admonition, Alfred wouldn't have been able to even make the attempt to get up. It wasn't just the loss of blood- America had been paralyzed from the moment he'd been shot.

He couldn't have fought back, and that only made the anger and horror sharper.

Arthur had paced the little waiting room a nurse had ushered him to, until exhaustion found him, and left him dozing on the uncomfortable chair.

A nation couldn't die that easily, damnit.

He'd recovered from wounds that would have killed an ordinary man himself. England had the scars to prove it.

And that was a good chunk of the worry that had kept him at Alfred's bedside from the time they would allow him to be there.

The scars that could turn the thin soft tissue thick and inflexible.

Nations healed faster than humans, they healed better than humans. But the scars that injury left might-

Arthur didn't want to think about the possibilities that Alfred would be confined to the hospital, and as much as he complained about the constant chatter, told him to 'shut it' on more than one occasion, the very idea that the voice of America would be forever silenced...

What that would do to America's _people_ had yet to be determined.

Kiku and Matthew had been contacted. Both Canadian and Japanese forces had joined with England's own to watch over America, trying to make certain that no outside forces found out about Alfred's condition, and no outside forces could take it as an invitation to make an attack. They were the only ones that Arthur felt that he could trust right now.

Another attack was a nightmarish scenario that would, without a doubt, have finished America.

Both had snuck in visits to the injured nation over the last few days, however England found himself in the uncomfortable silence far too often for his liking. He'd taken to babbling, talking to the comatose Alfred about things that England couldn't recall.

Somehow in the blur of days, he'd found a small library, and now sat at the bedside with a book of poetry he'd found there. Arthur wasn't sure when he'd remembered how much Alfred loved to be read to, but found that reading the book aloud helped fill the emptiness.

_ ""Hope" is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without the words/And never stops at all..." _One of Alfred's poets, obviously- more positive than anything Arthur could think of at the moment. His vision was clouded with what lay in front of him.

_ "And sweetest in the gale is heard;/And sore must be the storm/That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm._" The bandages covered wounds that were healing, but Arthur was afraid of what would happen to the weakened country- the weakened man- that he cared so much about. Though they'd had their arguments, their issues that left both pouting and sulking (He could never really admit to either, but he knew. And Alfred knew.)

But Alfred was Alfred. And Arthur knew that he himself would be right there to help. There was no need to worry, really.

_ "I've heard it in the chillest land/And on the strangest sea,/Yet never, in extremity,/It asked a crumb of me._" Arthur let himself smile. Alfred had indeed rubbed off on him, if he was able to start believing that everything would be all right.

A soft sigh came from next to him, startling Arthur out of those thoughts, and onto the pair of hazy blue eyes that were now watching him.

"Alfred!" The book was dropped, forgotten, in his rush to grasp the nearest limp hand, to smile through the sudden rush of glad tears. (He wasn't going to cry, damnit. That wouldn't help America.)

There was an almost timid, pained smile, and Arthur felt the hand weakly squeeze his own.

His heart soared, and he tried to ignore the little voice that said 'That's not a real sign. It might be an involuntary reflex.'

"E-m'ly's alw's sweet. Din'..." Raw, raspy, painful- and nearly incomprehensible because of the way the jaw was wired shut to keep it healing properly. But it was there, and chased the little voice of doubt away. "know … y'liked 'er."

"Hush, idiot." Arthur leaned forward to brush his lips against the boy's forehead. "You're still healing."

"'Rthur..." The eyes were full of tears, just as England could tell his own were-(for the first time since that bloody night, when he was angryfearfulterrified that Alfred might actually die, and leave him alone with no one...) There was a hint of panic to the face. "was scared-"

"You don't have to be afraid, Alfred. I'll be here. You should rest your voice."

The hand squeezed his a little tighter. So pathetically vulnerable right now, eyes wide and very blue. Shivering slightly. Remembering how he'd always been, Arthur couldn't help the little twinge of nostalgia. Alfred clinging to him, or his brother when he was scared or hurt-

England merely took a moment to rearrange things, so that he could carefully wrap his other arm around America, in the best semblance of a hug that he could manage without hurting the larger man.

"Don't worry," Arthur murmured, "I will be here."

The arm around his shoulders was heavy, but welcome. The racing heart under his ear steadied, as the boy calmed, and seemed to drift into a natural sleep. Alfred would recover, and be back to annoying him soon enough. But right now...

Arthur found himself more relaxed as well. Everything would be fine. He'd move back to the chair in just one minute...

One more minute.

It was Kiku who found them, reading the situation with a glance.

Japan noted the look of contentment on the peaceful face of a sleeping America, as one arm curled almost protectively around England, who was curled up on the very edge of the bed against him with an arm flung over the larger's chest.

And the subdued smile on Arthur's face was relaxed, free of the usual and unusual stresses from the past week that knotted the heavy brow made Kiku smile himself, as he silently closed the door and left them to their shared slumber.


End file.
